


if he writes

by coricomile



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9139834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: "What, you want me to cry for you, bro?" Mitch asks, not bothering to look up from his phone. "Wah, number one pick Auston Matthews isn't beating actual Sidney fucking Crosby in the leaderboards in his rookie season. My heart breaks. My soul dies. I cry the most masculine of tears."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year's eve folks. It can only go up from here, right? Have some rookies for your troubles. And also a shot or three.

It's amazing how fast he goes from the Next Next One to being washed up at nineteen. Auston tries not to read the articles, tries not to look at the tweets or listen to the analysts, but it's fucking everywhere. It's like everyone's forgotten his debut, forgotten that he set a league record on his very first night. He's hit a wall, and no one's going to let him forget about it. 

The team hasn't given him much grief at least. Babcock is spacy as all hell, but somehow he has faith in the team and faith that Auston will remember how to find the back of the net sometime before the season is over. Naz keeps telling him to relax, like that's any help at all. All of Toronto is watching him, judging him. He can't relax with that sort of weight on his shoulders. 

"What, you want me to cry for you, bro?" Mitch asks, not bothering to look up from his phone. "Wah, number one pick Auston Matthews isn't beating actual Sidney fucking Crosby in the leaderboards in his rookie season. My heart breaks. My soul dies. I cry the most masculine of tears."

"Fuck you," Auston says, bristling. He knows it's stupid to be this worked up over it but he can't help it. The Leafs want him to carry the team on his back, like he's some sort of savior instead of a kid. "Nothing about you is masculine." 

Mitch flexes an arm, his bicep bunching, head still bowed over his phone. Auston thinks he's texting McDavid, but it really could be anyone. He's never met anybody that has the same knack for making friends as Mitch. He just shows up and starts talking, and people scramble to be near him. Auston can't even blame them. He did the same thing. Mitch is just so… effortless in his approach to people. 

"Davo says suck it up," Mitch says. 

"Bullshit." 

"Okay, he said some crap about rookie year being rough and some stuff about transitioning to the league." Mitch flaps a hand and pockets his phone. "But in normal people speak, it means sack up." He looks around the living room like he hasn't been in it a few dozen times already. Auston tries not to squirm. It's weird having an apartment that's his. He doesn't want Mitch judging it or whatever. "You know what we need?"

"What?" Auston asks, eyes narrowed. If Mitch tries to get him to DDR duel again, Auston's going to throw him out face-first into the snow. 

"Beer," Mitch says. He grins, bright and wide, and Auston can already feel himself cracking. "So much beer. You'll stop being a mopey bastard and I will have the express privilege of sending your stupid face to the team. Wins all around."

"No," Auston says. He's seen Mitch drink before. He turns into a grabby, loud mess. The guys think it's cute. Auston- who usually is the one that ends up with Mitch in his lap- does not. Really. He doesn't. 

"Yes," Mitch says. He's already collecting his winter gear from where it's been thrown around the living room, hopping on one foot then the other to pull his socks back on. "Your dad's not here, we have four days off, and you're bumming me out. Booze run, Papi. Grab your hat." 

Auston grabs his hat. 

Toronto is pretty in a totally different way than Arizona and Switzerland. It's also cold enough to make Auston's eyes water, freeze, and water again until it looks like he's been crying every time he steps outside. Mitch doesn't even seem phased as they walk the few blocks to the grocery store. His nose is bright red and his cheeks are pink, but he just keeps talking about the time he and Strome tried real, non-diluted Four Loko. It sounds awful. 

Somehow, Auston ends up as the one that has to both pay and carry the twenty-four case of Molson back to the apartment.

"I'm much too feminine to carry that all the way home," Mitch says when Auston tries to hand it over. Even with his gloves on, Auston feels like his fingers are frozen solid, and the little handles on the side of the box are actually starting to hurt. He should have known better, really. 

The upside is that, by the time they've gotten into the sweet, sweet heat of the apartment and stripped back out of their coats, the beers are already ice cold. Auston grabs two bottles, shoves the rest of them- still housed in the cardboard they came in- onto the mostly empty top shelf of the fridge, and makes Mitch go on the search for the bottle opener. He hasn't even started drinking yet, but he already feels less tense. The Mitch Marner effect he supposes. 

"Okay, so if we keep doing good," Mitch says, his beer dangling between his fingers carelessly. Auston's dad had mentioned buying dark furniture for a first apartment, no matter how bad it clashed with the walls, and Auston's glad he listened. By the end of the year, his couch will probably be pretty nasty. "If we keep doing good and get, like, real big boy contracts, we should room together. Like, your dad's not going to stay forever right?"

"He wants to go back next year," Auston says. He's kind of scared about it, kind of excited. He loves his family so, so much, but the total freedom sounds really awesome. "And I'm not living with you. You already steal too much of my stuff."

"But if I already lived with you, it would always end up at the same place," Mitch says, taking a long drink of his beer like he's perfectly proved his point. "You should learn to share better, anyway. We're _teammates_." 

"If you go anywhere near my underwear, I'm making you move in with Mo," Auston threatens. Mitch doesn't seem to notice or care. He knows he's won. If they both stay in Toronto at the end of the season, Auston's going to have to get used to Mitch being unreasonably awake at stupid times in the morning and stealing all of his socks. 

Eventually, even Mitch runs out of stuff to say. They watch Mulan on Netflix and work their way through the beer. They've got a system in place for beer delivery- best out of three in rock, paper, scissors- and on the last run, Mitch had just given up all hope and brought the whole case into the living room. It means that the beer is lukewarm at best, but Auston's just drunk enough that he doesn't care. He even sings along a little when Mitch prods at him. 

It's nice. Mitch gets the pressure, knows that the Leafs fans want them to be the next Crosby and Malkin, the next Kane and Toews, but it never seems to get to him. He just wants to go out and have fun, win the game because it always feels better to win than to lose. Auston wants to be more like him sometimes. He doesn't- he's not shy, but he's always been kind of quiet. All of his teammates had liked him well enough, but they'd never claimed his space in the same way Mitch does it, never sought him out unless he was already nearby. 

When Mulan ends, Mitch plays Up and unapologetically cries after Ellie dies. If Auston gets a little misty eyed at the same time, well. The only one around to see is Mitch, and he's a hopeless mess. 

They kill the case between them. Auston's floaty and loose, his muscles unclenched for the first time in what feels like forever. He's fine unless he turns his head too fast, which is hard to avoid. Mitch is plastered, and Auston can't figure out if he wants to watch the movie or Mitch's reactions to the movie more. Mitch decides it for him, slumping into Auston's lap and grinning. It leaves him only half-on the couch, but Auston helps keep him balanced. 

"Your nose is so fucking weird, man," Mitch says. His hair's flopped back from his forehead, his face slowly going red as blood rushes to his head. He reaches out and pokes the end of one finger against Austin's nose and laughs. "It's like… it's like a pig nose, but, like, not as squishy." He pushes against it and laughs again. Auston shoves him away and feel vindicated when Mitch topples off the couch and onto the floor. "Dude. Not cool."

"At least I don't have horse teeth," Auston says, because he's not above rising to the bait. Mitch makes him feel like he's all of fifteen again, just a little awkward and unsure of what to say. Mitch grins, baring all of those teeth, and kicks his feet up next to Auston's legs. 

"Barnyard boys," Mitch says, nodding to himself. "Not the most awesome band name, but we can work it." He's quiet for all of three seconds before his head pops up, just barely missing a collision with the coffee table. "Dude, you know who has a weirder nose than you? Crosby. It's like-" Mitch does something with his hands that Auston figures is supposed to signify the weirdness of Crosby's nostrils. "Think he'd join the band? I bet he could play drums."

"You're hammered," Auston says. It's probably an understatement. Mitch blows a raspberry and lays back against the carpet. Just watching him is exhausting. Mitch laughs, big enough that he curls in around his stomach, kicking Auston in the thigh. 

"Oh my god," he says. "I almost made a joke about how he could bang me like a drum." And, well, there's nothing Auston even wants to do with that. 

"Come on," Auston says, pushing up off the couch and crouching to fit his hands under Mitch's arms. "You're going to hate yourself so much in the morning." Mitch is easy enough to lift up to his feet, surprisingly heavy as he leans on Auston's side. 

"Dude, I'm totally gonna crank one out thinking about Crosby," Mitch mumbles, his head lolling onto Auston's shoulder. Auston's fingers twitch on Mitch's arm, sinking into the soft skin, but Mitch just keeps trying to shuffle forward. 

"Not in my house you're not," Auston says. Mitch snorts. It should be unattractive, but it's almost cute. Auston hates himself a little. "And you shouldn't say shit like that. Think it or whatever, but you can't just say it."

"I'm not gonna, like, announce that I like dudes in the dressing room," Mitch says, stumbling to a stop. He looks affronted, like Auston just questioned his ability to skate backwards. "But you're you." Mitch pokes his fingertip against Auston's nose again, grinning. "You're my _teammate_." The way he says it, Auston doesn't think he's just talking about wearing the leaf. 

"Yeah," Auston says. Mitch lights up like the fucking sun. Auston already pities him for the hangover he's going to have. "Come on. Don't pass out in the hallway."

Somehow, they make it to the guest room. Mitch wiggles out of his jeans and sweatshirt, nearly toppling over his own feet. Auston catches him, laughs when Mitch tackles him onto the bed. It creaks warningly, but holds up under them as Mitch fights with the comforter. He should probably try to get Mitch to brush his teeth, or at least drink some water, but he's dizzy and he likes the way Mitch keeps laughing, like he's being told a long, involved joke. 

"Snuggle up, Papi," Mitch slurs. He's finally managed to get himself burrito wrapped in the comforter, his face pink and his eyes barely open. He pats the mattress next to him and kicks a corner of the quilt. 

"I'm not snuggling up," Auston says. He's got the feeling it would end badly, one way or another. Mitch snorts and rolls onto his side. His shoulders are broad and pale where they peek over the dark fabric of the comforter. 

"I'll even let you be big spoon," Mitch says. He yawns, loud and echoing and entirely unselfconscious. "But imma pass out in, like, seconds. So hurry up."

Auston cracks. He kicks off his own jeans, but leaves the sweater. Mitch seems like the stealing the covers type. It's weird to put his arm around Mitch's stomach, even weirder to be close enough to smell his sweat and shampoo, but it's a good kind of weird. A Mitch kind of weird. Auston presses his nose to Mitch's hair and tries to remember why he'd been so wound up in the first place. It's just hockey. It's a game he loves and a game that loves him back. Fuck everything else. 

"You're gonna be hall of famer," Mitch says quietly. He fumbles a hand out from the blankets and curls his fingers around Auston's wrist. "Me and you, man, we're, like, gonna get a Cup and our names are gonna be on it-" he breaks off for a yawn that Auston can feel, Mitch's back pushing into his chest- "and they'll give you an A when we finally pick a Cap. It's gonna be great."

"Go to sleep," Auston says. When he closes his own eyes, he can see it. Him and Mitch holding the Cup, him and Mitch a little older, a little smarter, shaping their team into what it once was. They're not Malkin and Crosby. They're not Kane and Toews. But maybe- maybe they can make a difference anyway. 

"Gotcha," Mitch mumbles. Auston tightens his arm around Mitch's waist and tries to listen to his own advice.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come join me at [tumblr](http://notyourlovesong.tumblr.com)


End file.
